Encounters from the Past: A nightly Visit

It is now common knowledge that I am from Rehoboth. A few people left the church. I am sorry about that – but that is their choice. Together we are taking a journey – learning from each other and shaping each other. The unthinkable even happened the other day – I taught them Nama and Afrikaans songs. Our worship is so much richer. In fact a few black families have joined the worship services. It is by no means easy, but I am enjoying myself.

My phone rings. A whisper-like voice asks: “Can I please come and see you tonight?” She is a very prominent member in her community. She says to me: “I cannot hide this any longer! I miss my family.”

You see, my parents told me about this thing – and I thought that it was just a concoction of their imagination. I remember daddy telling me that many Baster and Coloured families have brothers and sisters that have “passed as white” during the Apartheid years. Among others, I was told, they used the “comb test”. This is so ridiculous that it feels silly to repeat it. Anyway, they (I suppose officials from the Apartheid Government) would comb your hair – if the comb got stuck in your hair, you were classified as Baster or Coloured, otherwise you could “pass as white.” This of course “helped” many to gain privileges (schooling, health care) that were only meant for white people. Desperate times!

This meant that many people were separated from their families and could never openly associate with their Baster or Coloured families.

She says to me: “It’s been more than 40 years now. I could not even go to bury my mother and father.” She cries uncontrollably. When she gathers herself again, she says: “I used to visit them in Rehoboth at night times when my husband was out of town. But then one night, my sister was there and told me that I am a traitor and that I should not come again.” She tells me that she’s had children by then and that it was difficult to make choices. Her husband never knew the truth. He was told that she was an orphan. Then she says: “Deep down, I think he knew. Before he died last year, he said: ‘Darling, I understand, it is ok!’ I could never ask him what he meant, but I think he figured it out.”

“All I wanted was a better life for me and for my children … a way out of the misery of Apartheid. I know, I was selfish, but I had so many dreams. Dreams that I could not fulfill if I stayed in Rehoboth or … (she cries) continued to be a Baster.”

All I try to do is to be there for her. She talks for hours, beginning with her “confession”, and then eventually she talks about her childhood memories. It starts with the difficult childhood she had and the poverty she had to face. But when she starts talking about the beautiful memories, the fun they had when fetching water and the games they played, she smiles!

Then she starts asking me about family members. “Do you know this one and that one?” Unfortunately, I am too young – they have all gone.

I ask her: “What do you want to do now?” The smile disappears. She gets up. “I am sorry,” she says, “I have to go. I will talk to you again.” She leaves.

I am so pained by this conversation. I feel so helpless. I know that I cannot act on her behalf. She has to do this herself.

Our conversations after that are not the same again. It is if she pretends that we’ve never had this conversation before. She chose to keep her “secret”. The “consequences” of “coming clean” (as she called it) was too great for her.

At least I was there to listen. I was there to provide a safe space wherein she could feel free to share her pain. As much as it was cathartic for her, it was a mirror for me. A mirror wherein I could see the pain of my home community and the uncomfortable choices (right or wrong – you be the judge of that) that people were “forced” to make, trying to break free from the grips of a terribly dehumanizing system, called Apartheid.

I am so sad!